


Piecing Us Back Together

by SyntheticWinter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticWinter/pseuds/SyntheticWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Heaven, Sam tries to explain...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piecing Us Back Together

Dean’s mind was a swirling mess of angels and Lucifer and God and just what the _hell_ they were going to do now, but above everything was Sam.

He hadn’t thought Heaven was supposed to hurt, but it had, god it had. He’d always known Sam didn’t want this life, but he’d let himself think that maybe, just _maybe_ , he didn’t hate it quite so much. Sam had said he didn’t want normal anymore, and Dean had stupidly let himself believe that. Well, he was paying for it now.

Stanford. One of Sam’s best memories was the night he left for _Stanford_ , the night he left Dean _behind_. And Dean really didn’t want to think about that night, didn’t want to remember the daysweeks _months_ (years) that followed, drowning himself in alcohol and sex and the job, plodding along behind Dad, keeping his mouth shut and doing what he was told. Missing Sam.

He couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal, even though he knew he had no right to it.

Dean had exactly three emotional settings: normal, angry, and distraught. He could feel himself veering pretty wildly between the latter two, and it just served to drive home how little control he had over anything anymore, even himself. 

As if to illustrate this point, his mouth opened and he heard himself choke out, “I’m sorry I dragged you back into all this, Sammy.”

“Dean—”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean interrupted, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I get it.” Sam would always be the most important thing in Dean’s life, but Dean hadn’t been that for Sam for a long time now.

“Dean, stop the car.” And he did, because he’d always had a hard time saying no to Sam. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned the engine off. He closed his eyes but kept his hands on steering wheel, needing to hold on to something while he waited in the tense silence for the sound of Sam’s door opening and closing as he got out, the sound of the trunk slamming shut after Sam grabbed his stuff, the sound of gravel crunching under boots as Sam walked away from him one more time.

Instead, he heard nothing, and eventually he cracked one eye open and dared a sideways glance at Sam – still sitting, against all odds, in the passenger seat, without even his seat belt undone. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said calmly, once he’d gotten Dean’s attention, and Dean had never figured out how Sam always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking without him saying a word. He turned to face Sam fully and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He realized he had no idea what to say, and the usual bullshit he pulled out when that was the case wasn’t going to cut it this time.

He wished, not for the first time, that he was half as good with words as Sam was. He was good at cracking jokes and getting what he wanted, but Sam was the one who could talk about important things, could put words to ideas in a way Dean had always (silently, secretly) envied. 

Sam’s expression shifted subtly. “That is, unless you want me to.”

Want him to _what_? Dean couldn’t remember where they’d left the conversation. He stared at Sam blankly, trying to work through everything, watching as Sam’s face slowly closed off, desperately searching for something to say that would make everything okay. 

“Sammy—” He stopped.

“This was just one too many, wasn’t it?” 

Dean stared at Sam and tried to figure out what the hell he was talking about. One too many _what_? 

“I messed up – again – and that’s it. You’re done with me.” Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sam just kept talking. “No, I get it. If you could just drop me in the next town, I’d appreciate it. Then I’ll be out of your way.” 

Dean tried to say that he didn’t want Sam “out of his way” (whatever _that_ meant), but his throat was too tight for words. Sam was leaving him. Again. Well, he wouldn’t beg Sam to stay, much as he might want to; he still had _some_ pride. Instead, he nodded, turned the car back on, and pulled back onto the highway. Neither said a word.

* * *

By the time they pulled into a motel two towns over, the silence was killing Dean. Sam gave him a questioning look, but Dean couldn’t return it, couldn’t get his eyes anywhere near Sam’s. Sam shrugged and followed him in to get a room, then followed him through the door into a motel room that looked just like every other motel room they’d ever been in. Dean threw his bag on one of the beds and headed straight for the shower, wondering if Sam would still be there when he got out.

He had to admit, he was more than a little surprised when he stepped out of the bathroom a full ten minutes later to see Sam sitting on his bed, fiddling with the strap on his duffel bag.

The silence was thick, tense, with none of the usual banter between them, and it made something under Dean’s skin itch. He almost wished Sam would just get it over with and leave already, rip the Band-Aid off, because this uncertain waiting was killing him. At the same time, he selfishly wanted Sam to stay as long as Dean could get him to because he _needed_ Sam, more than he sometimes thought was healthy.

He guessed that was the problem. 

Dean had always been the needier of the two of them. He’d needed Sam to need _him_ and had grasped anything and everything he could to keep Sam with him, tied to him. And then the day had come when Sam just… didn’t need him anymore. The day when Sam had cut him loose and taken off to live his own, normal life, leaving Dean in the dust to try to pick up and move on. 

And Dean had tried. Goddamn, but he’d tried. After those first few months of awkward phone calls he’d only managed when he was drunk off his ass, he’d stopped calling. All he was doing anyway was reminding Sam of the life he’d left behind and didn’t want any part of anymore. It was just hurting them both. So for two years, Dean had gone without the sound of Sam’s voice, his breathing late at night, his awful taste in music, his smile, his presence in the car – all of it. 

And then he’d dragged Sam back into all of this. He’d come tearing in and ripped Sam’s normal life to shreds. He’d gotten Jessica killed and Sam’s home burned to the ground. He’d made it so Sam had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to but Dean. And deep down, somewhere he didn’t want to examine too closely, he was the tiniest bit glad.

He wondered what kind of person that made him.

Sam took his turn in the shower, then lay down on the other bed in silence. Dean desperately wanted to leave to escape the stifling atmosphere, but he was dead certain if he did Sam wouldn’t be there when he came back. Instead, he turned the light off and lay in the dark, watching the beams from passing headlights play over the walls and ceiling and listening to Sam’s breathing that let him know Sam wasn’t asleep either. 

Eventually, what felt like hours later, Sam broke the silence. “Are we ever going to talk about this?” he asked quietly, and he sounded sad.

“What’s to talk about?” Dean replied just as quietly, his voice a little hoarse. He hadn’t spoken in miles save for the few words needed to book the room for the night.

He heard a rustle of sheets as Sam abruptly sat up. “What’s to talk about?” Sam repeated incredulously. “How about _what happened_?”

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Dean bit out. “It was all just memories, right?”

Sam made a frustrated sound. “That’s not what I meant.”

Dean sat up too but kept his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor between the beds. “Then what did you mean?” The words could have sounded confrontational had they not been spoken in so flat a tone.

“I mean—” Sam broke off with another frustrated sound, and this time Dean just let the silence sit. There wasn’t anything he could say to change Sam’s mind anyway, so what was the point? After another moment, Sam got up and turned on the light. Dean kept his gaze where it was, somewhere between the bottom of Sam’s bed and the floor. The bed creaked as Sam sat back down, and one sock-covered foot came into view.

“Those memories—” Sam started, and Dean’s eyes slammed shut. “Dean, look at me. Please.” Dean forced himself to open his eyes and raise his head a little, but he ended up looking somewhere in the vicinity of Sam’s nose. Sam sighed, and Dean could clearly hear the _close enough_ in the quiet puff of air. “Those weren’t my best memories, Dean. How could they be? None of them had you.” 

At that, Dean’s gaze snapped up to lock with Sam’s, searching his eyes, _needing_ to see the truth. Sam meant what he was saying, and Dean felt his shoulders lose some of the tension he’d been carrying since they got back. Some. “But then why…?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“It was Zachariah.” The sudden voice made them both jump. 

“Cas,” Dean said, a mix of greeting and admonishment for once again scaring the living bejesus out of him.

“What do you mean, it was Zachariah?” Sam asked.

“He tampered with something in Heaven’s electrical field that disrupted your memories. I believe he did it to further drive a wedge between the two of you by hurting Dean.” 

“… sounds like him. Asshole,” Dean muttered, glaring at the floor. 

Sam got up and came to stand in front of Dean, reaching out to gently tilt his face up. Dean met his eyes, barely, feeling his face heat because _Cas was right there_. Sam, apparently, didn’t care. He shifted so his hand was cupping Dean’s face, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and said softly, seriously, “Are we okay?”

Dean nodded and kept his eyes on Sam’s, seriously hoping Cas had disappeared.

The quiet clearing of a throat and familiar rustle of trench coat proved him wrong. “That was not the only reason I came. I wanted to return this.” 

Dean looked to the amulet held in his outstretched hand and heard Sam’s sharp inhale beside him. He reached for the cord dangling from Cas’s fingers and could almost _feel_ the relief coming off of Sam. He shot Sam a questioning glance, and Sam said, “I wasn’t sure you’d want it back. After…”

“After Zachariah pulled _another_ stunt to get between us? It wasn’t you, Sam.”

“I barely even remember that Thanksgiving. And I forgot all about Bones until I saw him again. You’ve got to believe me, Dean.”

“I do, I do,” Dean said quickly, not wanting to see Sam distressed. He’d had quite enough of that in the last few years, thanks.

“So… we’re good?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“We’re good,” Dean confirmed, and was rewarded when Sam smiled for the first time in weeks. Dean couldn’t resist; he leaned in to kiss Sam, and he only remembered Cas was there when he heard the distinctive flutter of wings. He pulled back to smile sheepishly at Sam. “Think we scarred him for life?” 

Sam laughed, and Dean was so delighted at the sound that he kissed Sam again.


End file.
